Carpe Noctem
by bananaquit
Summary: Canon companion to my roleplay blogs that follows Ford through his college years. Focuses on Ford's mental health and relationship with Fiddleford. Extremely slow burn fiddauthor.
1. Chapter 1

Well, here it was. _Room 618_.

Stanford unlocked the door and turned the rusty, loose knob. It opened with a horrid squeaking noise, just as he'd anticipated. Everything at this shitty school was subpar, he didn't exactly have high hopes. Ford picked up his boxes and bags, then elbowed the door open and walked inside.

He took a moment to glance over the room – peeling pale yellow wallpaper covered in lazy orange waves, two beds with hundreds of initials and other miscellaneous (mostly obscene) messages scratched onto their frames, a couple of beat-up old end tables, two desks riddled with scratches and dents, two empty wall-mounted shelves that looked like they were about to come toppling down at any moment, and a singular window. Far too small and definitely too smelly.

Great. Just _fan-fucking-tastic_. He _couldn't wait_ to meet his dormmate (by couldn't wait, of course, he meant he hoped they never showed up). Whoever he was going to have to room with was probably going to be just as shitty as everything else about this stupid school. Heaving a sigh, Ford set his possessions near the bed on the left and sat down, the mattress springs squealing underneath him. He stared down at his hands in his lap for a moment before lifting his gaze to find a figure standing in the doorway, wearing a smug smirk that he was immediately tempted to wipe off with a well-placed punch. Ford stood and examined him.

The stranger was a rather lanky man about his height. A pair of round spectacles rested atop his rather long nose. He had thin, straw-like hair that was an almost unnatural shade of light brown. A streak of lighter-colored hair ran horizontally around his head just above his ears. He wore a pair of tattered bell-bottoms and scuffed brown shoes. This was topped off with about the ugliest red, black, and white plaid-patterned button-up Ford had ever laid eyes on. Stanford's gaze wandered down from his giraffe of a neck (he honestly couldn't even tell where his chin was) to the bulging satchel that hung at his side, which appeared to be _burned_ in several places. The end of some sort of musical instrument (a guitar, maybe?) was sticking up from behind his back. Ford hated him already.

The man set the single cardboard box he was carrying on the desk to the right and then turned to him. "Howdy," the man greeted in what Ford took as a condescendi ng tone, extending his hand toward him. His voice was high-pitched and accented just enough to grate on Stanford's nerves. So his new roommate was one of those idiotic hillbillies, too. _Excellent_. Ford scowled, narrowing his eyes and hesitating a bit before placing a tightly balled fist in the other man's hand. The southerner's baby blue eyes flicked from his hands to his face with a bewildered expression as the awkward handshake was reciprocated. Ford brushed off his hand on his pants and then quickly tucked both hands behind his back, hoping the fool was too thick to have taken notice of his deformity. He said nothing. Instead, he turned abruptly away (still making sure to keep his hands hidden) and made a big show of going back to unpacking.

The stranger quirked a brow. "I _said_ , howdy." he repeated in that absolutely wretched voice of his, annunciating "howdy" like he was trying to teach a child to speak.

" _Hello._ " Ford snapped back curtly, not even turning to face him.

" _Somebody's_ sure got his feathers ruffled." the redneck muttered, turning and setting his satchel on the desk.

Ford bit back a biting remark and glanced back at the other. The instrument strapped to his back was now in full view – a _banjo_. A goddamn _banjo_. Ford watched him pull a couple of dirty, wrinkled outfits out of the satchel and toss them on the bed. He then shook the bag upside-down over the desk, sending an array of tools, screws, circuitboards, scraps of metal, and spools of wiring clattering out. Finally, he slid the cardboard box all the way under his bed and then stood up, stepping back to watch Ford. Ford, unnerved by the boy's stare, shoved a book onto the shelf above his bed a bit harder than intended.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed as the shelf gave way and slammed down on top of his head. Ford rubbed the spot where it'd hit him, briefly forgetting to hide his hand. The Annoyance laughed. Ford clenched his teeth, blinking away the tears that had begun to pool at the corners of his eyes.

"Here. Lemme fix that for 'ya." The Annoyance walked over and knelt on the bed beside him. He examined the board and the mounting mechanism for a few seconds. "Oh. This is an easy fix, no problem." The Annoyance grabbed a screwdriver and matching screw off his desk, then returned and began to work. "Well, I should introduce myself, I reckon." he spoke, not looking away from the wall. "Name's Fiddleford McGucket. I'd say it's a pleasure to meet 'ya, but you clearly don't see it that way." he said, a slight edge of bitterness creeping into his voice.

"Stanford Pines." Ford replied flatly, folding his arms. He sat cross-legged on the bed and watched The Annoya- _Fiddleford_ work. Fiddleford managed to remount the shelf fairly quickly.

"There. Good as new." He gave it a wiggle to make sure it was stable and turned to look at Ford with the same smug-ass smile he had when he first saw him. Ford frowned deeply. "You're welcome, asshole." Fiddleford said, sliding off the bed. Ford glared at him.

Stanford went back to the task of unpacking, silently brooding. As he was putting up his prized poster of Nikola Tesla, he caught a glimpse of something moving out of the corner of his eye. He looked down to see a _cockroach_ skitter out from under one of the beds and let out a pitiful yelp. Ford frantically dug around in one of his boxes and pulled out a can of pest control spray, then proceeded to heavily douse the entire dorm room with the substance. So the place was infested with cockroaches. _Astounding_. Why wasn't he surprised?

"Mostly bug-free dorms, my ass. Wouldn't be a problem if I was at West Coast Tech." Ford muttered under his breath. He chucked the can back into the box. Stupid fucking school. Stupid fucking Stan. Stupid fucking idiot he was going to be stuck with indefinitely because of this stupid fucking school because of stupid fucking Stan.

Fiddleford's coughing turned into laughter as he squashed the roach with his foot. "Wooooow. Tough guy." He was grinning ear to ear as he spoke.

"I hate you." said Ford.

Fiddleford's expression didn't change. "I know."

* * *

The two finished their unpacking in bitter silence. Ford left immediately afterward (not before making sure to memorize where every single one of his possessions was and shoving his journal and sketchbook where Fiddleford didn't have a chance of finding them, of course). His aim was to go out and meet his professors (class didn't officially start until tomorrow, but it was best to get a foot in the door now so that he had a head start), which he certainly did. After checking out a stack of yellowing, dog-eared books from the maybe eight shelves Backupsmore called a library, he had enough information to complete all of next month's assignments that very night if he so pleased.

Now he was again standing in front of the same mystery-fluid-stained red door he's found himself before that morning, but feeling even more temperamental than he'd been just hours ago and clutching a leaning tower of books that was bound to topple over at any second. He kicked the door a couple of times, not wanting to set his books down and knowing full well the bum was probably still inside.

"Let me in, Fi-Fiddleford." Ford spoke. He tried to sound firm, but stumbled over the pest's tongue-twister of a name. What kind of name was Fiddleford? Who named their kid _Fiddleford_? Seriously, why wo-

His train of thought was abruptly derailed as the door swung open. In hindsight, leaning against the door to counterbalance the weight of the books hadn't been the wisest choice, seeing as he had lost his balance when the surface moved away and he was probably going to come face-to-face with the floor very soon.

He felt a surprisingly strong grip clamp onto his arms and push him back before he could tumble over completely. A few books flew off the top of the stack and he stumbled a bit before he managed to right himself, but he was saved from a flat-out fall by none other than the scrawny parasite he was going to be sharing this dump with for way too long.

Fiddleford peered around the stack of books and grinned at him. "Easy there, tiger." he teased, letting go of him and stepping back. Ford swore he was going to go insane if he had to listen to that voice every single day. He set the stack of books on his desk with a growl, then turned back to look over the room. He tallied up each item that belonged to him, ticking off his mental checklist as he made sure each and every thing he owned was accounted for. He wouldn't put petty thievery past a filthy hick like Fiddle-whatever-the-fuck-he-called-himself. If anything was missing, Tesla help him…

Huh. Nothing was gone. Remarkable.

"What's with all the books, anyway?"

"None of your business."

* * *

The rest of the afternoon was spent trying to ignore the nuisance by burying his face in a book on quantum physics and shamelessly cutting short any attempts at conversation.

"What're you majorin' in, Stanford?"

" _Why does it fucking matter to you?_ "

"Nevermind, then. Jesus."

Ford still wasn't sure why the prick was suddenly so hellbent on being friendly, anyway. Had he not made it abundantly clear that he didn't want to speak to him? Fiddleford would pose a random inquiry even ten minutes or so on average, much to Ford's irritation.

"Can I see your schedule? Maybe we have some classes together."

" _No_."

He'd just about had it.

"So, where're you from?"

"New Jersey."

"That explains the attitude, I guess."

"Well, where are you from?"

"Tennessee."

" _Wow_." Ford gave an overdramatic gasp, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "College must be _so_ different, huh? You don't even have to ride your tractor to school!"

Apparently that struck a nerve. Fiddleford stormed over and stood beside the bed where Stanford was sitting and reading. "For your information, I biked _five miles_ to school every morning." Ford felt a hand grab a hold of his sweater. He dropped his book as he was lifted and shoved roughly against the headboard. Fiddleford leaned over and put his face so close to Ford's that he could feel his breath on his face. "Listen here, city boy." His voice was dead serious and laced with something so remarkably close to menace that Ford actually found himself feeling _scared_ for a moment. "You think you're some kinda smart-ass, huh? You think you're hot shit, don't you? _Don't you?_ " He shoved him again.

Ford finally found his voice. He grabbed Fiddleford's arm and tried to push him off of him. "Let go of me!"

Fiddleford responded by moving his hand from his shirt to his neck, pinning him. "I've been tryin' to be sociable. I've been tryin' to be nice. And you've given me nothing but _lip_ in return. Well, guess what, Jersey? I'm gonna kick your entitled ass if you don't shut your goddamn mouth. Am. I. Making. Myself. Clear?" Ford felt the hand around his throat tighten. Then instinct finally took over and Ford kicked him squarely in the chest.

"Get your hands _off_ of me!" he yelled. Fiddleford reeled back from the blow. Ford stood up, raising his fists defensively in case things escalated. Honestly, with the way his day was going, he wouldn't even be surprised if he ended up getting into a fistfight with his roommate the first day of college. He watched Fiddleford size him up, already feeling a nervous sweat collect on his temples.

Fiddleford let out a strangled noise of displeasure and brushed his shirt off as if to collect himself before looking Ford straight in the eyes. "Look, Stan…"

" _Don't_ call me that."

The room went absolutely silent for a moment.

"Okay, fine. Stanford… I don't wanna fight you." Fiddleford put his hands out in front of him in sort of a "simmer down" gesture, trying to deescalate the situation.

"Then just _leave me alone!_ " Ford shouted, extending both arms out to the sides in utter exasperation. Wasn't the solution obvious?

Fiddleford simply stood there and blinked at him for a few moments, seemingly stunned by his reaction. Ford squinted back at him, equally confused. Fiddleford's blank look twisted into a scowl after a few seconds of silence.

"Happy to oblige." He hissed. He walked over to his bed and climbed in, clothes and shoes and all, then pulled the covers over himself and abruptly turned off the light. "Good night." His tone was short and curt.

Ford threw his arms in the air, grumbling something under his breath before flipping it back on. "It's nine 'o clock!" he spoke as the suboptimal electrical system buzzed and flickered to life.

"Exactly!" The light was turned off again.

And now it was back on, accompanied by the same static and flickering as before. Ford blinked rapidly to adjust to the change in light levels. His eyes and ears were beginning to become irritated, but he ignored it. "Do you seriously go to bed at _nine 'o clock!_?" he inquired incredulously.

Off. "Uh, yes. What are you, nocturnal?"

On. "What are you, a child?"

Ford braced himself for a rebuttal, but received none. He looked down at Fiddleford, who gave a sigh and rubbed his brow with his fingers. "Can you just do me a favor and go to bed?"

"I don't _owe_ you any favors! You tried to _choke_ me!"

"I did no-" Fiddleford cut himself off and sighed again. "Stanford. Hear me out. As much as you so clearly despise me, I think it's been a long day for both of us, yeah? I don't know about you, but I'm fucking exhausted."

Ford considered this for a few moments. Fiddleford was right, honestly. He didn't have the energy to fight any longer. He turned away and went to find his pajamas. "This is both the first and last time I'm ever going to listen to you. I hope you realize that."

He heard Fiddleford let out a huff of amusement. He turned to see him grab a bundle of clothes from under his bed. Ford grabbed a bag of toiletries and followed him out the door and down the hall to the bathrooms. He brushed his teeth and returned to the dorm room (he probably should've showered, but he didn't _really_ need one tonight, did he?) to change.

Fiddleford came back a few minutes later wearing a ratty old t-shirt and frayed shorts. Both students climbed wordlessly into their respective beds. Somebody turned out the light. A few minutes of quiet and darkness passed before a sudden thought regarding their earlier spat popped into Ford's head. He snickered aloud. "Were you really just going to turn out the light and sleep in your clothes?"

"It wouldn't have been as effective if I actually took the time to get ready for bed first." Fiddleford snapped.

Ford snorted. "Fair enough."


	2. Chapter 2

He couldn't sleep.

12:03.

 _Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry._ It repeated in his head like a mantra, over and over.

12:04.

 _Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry._ It wasn't so much his body that was the problem, no. It was his mind.

12:05

 _Don't cry. Don't cry. Do. Not. Cry. Don't you_ _ **dare**_ _cry_ , Ford thought. _Don't do it. Don't._

12:06.

 _You_ _ **can't**_ _. He's_ _ **right there**_ _, he'll_ _ **hear you**_ _._ He could've sworn the minutes were starting to pass slower.

12:07.

 _Just stop thinking about Stan_ , Ford told himself. _Just stop thinking about him. I'm sure he's fine. He's_ _ **fine**_ _._ He glanced over at clock. Why wasn't it 12:08 yet? It should be 12:08 by now. He silently willed the clock to change, tucking his knees to his chest and letting out a long, slow breath. _Don't cry. Stan is okay. Even if he's not, it's not my problem._

 _Of_ _ **course**_ _it's my problem. It's my fucking fault. I did_ _ **nothing**_ _. I just_ _ **stood there**_ _and did nothing and now he's out on the streets and winter's coming soon and what if his car breaks down and what if he's dea-_

 _No. He's fine, Stanley's_ _ **fine**_ _. Don't worry about Stanley. Don't even think about Stanley._

12:07.

 _Don't think about Stanley. Don't cry. Don't think about Stanley. Don't cry._

12:07.

 _Don't think about Stanley. Clear your mind. Go to sleep,_ _ **goddamnit**_ _._ He closed his eyes and opened them again.

12:07.

The clock _had_ to be broken. He pushed himself into an upright position and felt his breath hitch in his chest. Why wa- _oh_. Fuck. No. No, no, _no_. Those could _not_ be tears running down his cheeks. He was _not_ crying. He _couldn't_ be. Ford sniffled. He wasn't crying. He rubbed at his eyes furiously. _Don't cry._

11:19? Wait, what? It was just- _he couldn't read the fucking clock_. Perhaps he just needed his glasses. His vision couldn't be blurred due to tears, that wasn't possible. He wasn't crying, after all. He fumbled on the bedside table, grasping for his glasses. _No, those were_ _ **not**_ _tears brimming in his eyes_. His hand finally found them and he slapped them haphazardly onto his face, blinking and blinking and trying to bring the numbers on the display into focus.

He still couldn't tell the time. His face was hot. His vision was swimming. Everything was darkness and shadows and shapes moving on the wall but it was okay because he _wasn't_ crying and he _wasn't_ thinking about Stanley and he _wasn't_ thinking about how the only thing he'd managed to do on his first day here was make an enemy out of the man who he'd have to be living with and he _certainly_ wasn't having a breakdown in the middle of his first night here. Right in front of his roommate. Oh, _shit_. He wasn't awake, was he? What if he was awake? Ford took a deep, shaking breath and reminded himself that it didn't matter because he _wasn't crying_.

Fiddleford showed no sign of moving, but his back was toward him, so Ford couldn't tell if he was awake or not. He wondered what Fiddleford would do if he caught him weeping like an infant. Would he tell everybody? Would it matter? They would all think he was a freak anyway, they always did. It wasn't as if he was going to make _friends_ here. He didn't want any friends, right? He didn't need any friends. He didn't need or depend on anybody, especially Stanley, and he never had. He could make it on his own! Yes, everybody hated him. Yes, people were mean and cruel. The bottom line was that they weren't worth wasting his energy on. He was fine. He didn't feel _alone_ or anything of the sort. That was such a pathetic way to feel. Almost as pathetic as crying in the middle of the night, which he was _not_ doing. He wasn't weak and he wasn't a coward and he wasn't scared of people and he wasn't scared of the future and he wasn't scared of failure and he _was._ _Not. Crying_.

 _Fuck_. He was crying.

A choked sob escaped him. He covered his mouth with his hands, falling backwards onto his pillow. Stanford cringed at the sound of the squeaky mattress springs absorbing the blow, hoping it wasn't already too late. He gasped and shoved his fingers in his mouth, biting down to muffle the sound of his wheezing and hopefully prevent himself from crying any louder. He clutched the bedsheets with his other hand and took a few shuddering breaths to calm himself. Ford removed his glasses, keeping his eyes shut tight, and set them on the nightstand. In one smooth motion, he flipped himself over, removed his fingers from his mouth, and shoved his face into his pillow.

He spent most of the rest of the night suffocating himself and desperately hoping his loss of control was quiet enough to go undetected.

* * *

Ford didn't sleep that night. He rose early and crept out without waking Fiddleford. He trudged from hellish hall to hellish hall to attend his classes, eyes flicking about as he analyzed everything. Sharp remarks flared up in his mind, but he had nobody to complain to but himself. Emotions constantly shifted through his thoughts and on his face. Anger and disgust directed at the school, the people, and life in general were the most prominent, displayed in his furrowed brow and ever-present frown. Annoyance came secondhand in eye-rolls and quiet sighs and little muscle twitches. He didn't acknowledge the sadness or fear or tension, but they were all there in the way he kept his hands tucked and balled neatly behind his back or shoved in his pockets. They were there in the fact that he didn't speak a word unless it was to respond to the professor calling for attendance and interacted with next to nobody, avoiding eye contact and casting his gaze downward whenever anybody looked in his direction.

Ford held himself high despite his exhaustion, checking and rechecking his posture, adjusting his stance and making sure to look like he had his act together. Intimidation wasn't his aim, not exactly, but he tried to put off an air of standoffishness. He walked through the throngs of students completely alone, separated from whatever world They existed in. That was fine with him. He didn't want to exist in Their world. He hated Them all for being here and for the things he knew They'd do to him if he ventured into Their world. Their world terrified him, and he'd learned from experience it was best never to go there. So he continued forward, isolated among crowds. He felt inhuman sometimes, but that was okay. He liked feeling human even less.

He pondered how much he hated humans in general (apart from Tesla and Sagan and The Greats, of course, but they were almost superhuman, weren't they?) as he entered the room where he was to attend chemistry. Ford was suddenly yanked from his introspective daze and abruptly back into the world he'd spent all day separating himself from when his eyes landed on the back of somebody's head. The individual had light brown hair with a lighter streak running horizontally across it.

Shit.

Why the hell was the hillbilly even _in_ chemistry? He should be taking the more basic sciences, not the advanced classes. Ford's head was suddenly swimming. God. Fuck. No. A thousand "what ifs" bombarded his mind as he lowered his head to stare at the floor and quietly made his way to the lab table as far from Fiddleford as possible. He saw him turn and look at him, but pretended he hadn't. He didn't want to try to read that expression, he didn't want to try to determine the implications of his being here. He didn't want to think about what had probably already been said to the boy sitting next to him.

Ford sat down at the empty table in the back corner and hoped against hope that nobody would join him. He folded his hands neatly under the table and fixed his gaze on the chipped, off-white drywall. He heard the sound of the stool next to him scooting across the cheap tile floor and caught movement at the edge of his vision, but it felt so far away.

"Hey. Is it alright if I sit here?"

He didn't move. The words barley even registered in his mind.

"Okay. Gonna take that as a yes."

It all felt unreal. Ford felt like he was about to implode. His head felt suddenly too full and too empty and too heavy and too light all at once. Then blackness started to cloud his view. Little spots of darkness spread across his vision. He was sure he just had a migraine or a headache or som-

"Are you okay, man?"

What? Ford lifted his head from where it lay on the table and blinked blankly at the guy next him, a redhead with thick eyebrows and a scraggly beard.

"You kinda blacked out for a second there."

Stanford opened his mouth, but no words came out. A few seconds passed before he finally forced out a strangled-sounding "Oh". He felt like he was losing his mind, and if he looked like he felt, he was probably going to end up doing just that. So he straightened his back and sat tall and cleared his throat and spoke with so much forced confidence that he almost fooled himself. "Yes, I'm fine."

The professor went through her attendance list. When the name "Fiddleford McGucket" was called and a nasal "here" was echoed in reply, the horror of his situation started to sink in. When the name "Stanford Pines" was called and also answered with a "here" and _everybody (including Fiddleford)_ turned and _stared_ at him, everything suddenly became real again. He was at _Backupsmore University_. He was stuck in a class with the redneck who probably already hated his guts. Said hick was currently leaning over and whispering something to the person next to him and he really shouldn't have been so nasty to him yesterday and now he was dangerously close to being in _Their_ world because Fiddleford was telling him all about his breakdown and now there was nothing in his mind but constant, screaming static.

No, he wasn't going to break down right here. Ford wouldn't let himself lose it. He bit down on his tongue and tightened his hands on his knees, trying to stop his trembling. He told himself that it might not be too late. Fiddleford wasn't necessarily spreading rumors about him. He wasn't in Their world yet. He could fix this before it got out of hand, he could prevent everyone from knowing. All he had to do was apologize. He wasn't going to apologize because he was scared, that was ridiculous. He was going to apologize because it was the right thing to do, right? He was going to do it because he was a good person… right? He would just say sorry when he got back to the dorm later and everything would be fine. Surely.

Ford still wasn't sure why he'd lashed out in the first place. Fiddleford might be annoying, but he really didn't seem like a _bad person_. He _did_ seem like the kind of person who would do things like tell the secrets of the people who crossed him, though, but no, he wasn't worried about _that_. He wasn't anxious at all, he had no reason to be. Besides, even if Fiddleford told everyone that he was a weak, pathetic freak, it didn't matter. What happened in _Their_ world didn't affect him. Fine, fine. He was _fine_.

* * *

As soon as his last class ended, he tore across campus and back toward the dorms. Ford sprinted as fast as his legs could possibly carry him. He tripped at one point and took a hard fall on the concrete and everybody was looking at him again and his heart was beating so fast and his chest was going to explode and maybe he was crying now but he didn't want anyone to see that because only children cried over such silly things and men didn't cry and so now he was running even faster and just up the stairs and his dorm room was right down the hall and _he was here_.

Ford took a deep breath and paused outside the door. He wiped his face and collected himself, then unlocked the door and walked in. There he was, sitting at his desk. Stanford approached as his throat tightened. "Uh, Fiddleford."

"Yeah?" Oh, damn. He sounded pissed.

"I, um, I wanted to extend a formal apology for my rude behavior yesterday. I don't know what came over me. It wasn't right of me to take my anger out on you, you were simply trying to be polite. So… my apologies." he finished awkwardly, wishing he couldn't feel the sweat dripping down the side of his face.

Fiddleford let out a relieved sigh and stood up with a smile on his face. "Oh, thank the Lord. I was kinda hoping you were just in a mood. Here I was thinkin' you were some stuck-up jerk. I'm happy to put this all behind us. I'm real sorry on account of my actions as well, I hope you can forgive me."

"Of course." The corners of Ford's mouth twitched upward in the beginnings of a nervous smile.

"How's about we start over?" Fiddleford extended a hand toward him for a handshake.

Ford hesitated for a second, then returned the gesture. It wasn't balled into a fist this time. Ford figured an open handshake would help to show that his apology was sincere and he was willing to start fresh. He was conscious of the fact that it would probably alert Fiddleford to his six fingers (if he hadn't noticed already) and that could possibly be used against him as well, but being made of for his polydactyly was practically inevitable. It wasn't something he could avoid, it was bound to happen at some point.

"Well, in that case, my name is Stanford Pines and it's a pleasure to meet you." His voice was shaking a lot more than he wanted it to.

Fiddleford grinned. "Fiddleford McGucket. The pleasure's all mine." Then he glanced down at their clasped hands. Sure enough, he noticed. Ford visibly cringed as he began to speak, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes. "So, six fingers, huh? That's freaky."

Stanford tucked his hands behind his back and let out a breathless "yes". He couldn't do anything but agree. _Freaky_. He'd hit the nail on the head.

Fiddleford frowned at his reaction. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset 'ya."

Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder. Ford stiffened and let out an unintentional gasp. Fiddleford jumped back and both of them giggled nervously.

"It's alright. I'm used to it." Ford gave a tight, bittersweet smile and walked over to his own desk.

"No, really, I'm-"

" _Not a problem._ " Ford said, giving a dismissive hand wave over his shoulder. He spoke in a way that said _drop it_.

Fiddleford went silent and sat down at his own desk. He stared at Ford for a few seconds before speaking up again. "W-well, I'm assuming you've got stuff to work on, so I'm just going to-" He gave an awkward whistle then pointed to his desk before spinning around in his swivel chair so that his back was to Stanford.

Ford snickered. "Have fun with that." He pulled out the week's chemistry assignments and a pencil and buried himself in getting the hell out of Backupsmore.

* * *

 **credit to sovvung on tumblr for coming up with that sick burn about the tractor, btw**


End file.
